


Be My Flour Baby

by Carolinecalflo



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: flour baby project, in response to a post
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-05
Updated: 2013-10-05
Packaged: 2017-12-28 11:58:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/991746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carolinecalflo/pseuds/Carolinecalflo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I wrote this in response to the post<br/>invisibleinnocence:<br/>high school au where e&R get paired up for that flour sack baby project because the teacher thought Enjolras was a girl the entire year and that sends Enjolras on a sj rant about how the thought that men are incapable of raising children is a result of patriarchy in society and then Grantaire drops the flour sack<br/>http://arthurisagoodnameforahorse.tumblr.com/post/62567488679<br/>I only wish I'd posted it sooner! There's been an influx of 800 notes *shakes head*</p></blockquote>





	Be My Flour Baby

“Italian bread. Cake. Spaghetti.”

“Beer.”

“Beer isn’t made of flour.”

Grantaire turned his head to peer at Bahorel through dark curls. The boy’s cheek had become sweaty from an hour of its being pressed onto his battered, and scribbled on resin desk; with a paint stained hand he wiped the perspiration away. “Grain. It’s made with barley. It’s better than flour.” And he fell back onto his folded arms. “Beer.”

The voice of Mr. Felix Tholomyes, the school’s home-ec teacher, broke through Grantaire’s daydream. “I’m  _not_  sorry to say,  _big r_ ,” the man said, lowering and exaggerating his voice to poke fun at his own nickname for Grantaire, “you can’t make your baby into beer.” He smiled at his joke, or attempt at one, and moved on to pace through the desks of R’s fellow students. “You won’t be able to do much with your flour baby, that’s the point.  I want you all to feel the mammoth impact of…”

Grantaire nuzzled into the sleeves of his flannel shirt and drifted off, dreaming of beer, and smiling at a rumor about Tholomyes’s own child, and how he couldn’t accept the responsibility. Beer…

“AND IF THAT ISN’T ENOUGH-“ Grantaire woke up, gasping into a painful state of consciousness. He was still in Home Economics, but now Tholomyes wasn’t talking. Instead the voice came from the front of the concrete classroom; it was loud, demanding, forceful, and somehow harmonic. “This world is full of…” the voice continued, and Grantaire turned to look at Bahorel again. The messy haired boy was playing on his phone, but smiling along to the speech being made. A speech. In Home Economics.

“How long’s he been talking?” Grantaire whispered. Bahorel shrugged and mouthed “ten?”

R held in a smile, and cherished the pain that Tholomyes must have been going through. Enjolras, the leader, giving Tholomyes a piece of his mind. A piece of his beautiful, perfect, brilliant mind. Grantaire sighed and rolled his forehead back and forth on the desk absorbing the coolness of the plastic.

“And for women who are-“

“Don’t think you’re getting off scot-free,  _big r_.” Mr. Tholomyes broke in, leaving Enjolras fuming next to his seat. He stood with one hand on his binders, and the other clenched tightly. Blue veins and curving muscles weaved their way up his golden arm, up to where the oxford shirt sleeves were folded where his forearm met the elbow. Grantaire breathed deeply, grazed the back of Enjolras’ body with his weary eyes, and turned to the teacher.

“Sir, about the beer…” Grantaire began, and Bahorel laughed loudly.

The teacher walked toward the boy fervently and stopped next to Grantaire’s desk. His eyes paused on an intricately drawn portrait of Enjolras that Grantaire had sketched on the tan desk, only the boy’s arm covered most of it, keeping its identity secret. He then shifted his fierce gaze onto the boy before grabbing him by his scarf and pulling him onto Grantaire’s numb feet. Before R knew it, he was holding five pounds of flour wrapped in a blue knitted blanket.

He looked from the flour bag to his teacher with doe eyes. “What the hell?” He mumbled.

“While you were  _sleeping_ , Grantaire, I announced project partners. You and Mr. Enjolras over there will be spending the next week taking care of Billy there. The flour sack.” He pointed at the bag and then massaged his brow. Grantaire gaped at his teacher, and then built up the courage to look at Enjolras. “It’ll be a nice, erm, representation of times these days. Eh? Two men…”

Enjolras’ eyes finally moved from the green chalkboard, and shifted to the floor. Then, in one fluid moment, his toned shoulders turned, leading his sculpted torso to move his thin hips to move his red shoes. He turned to Grantaire. Enjolras stood at his desk trying to imagine how he could save this project, while Grantaire stood at his trying to imagine how he would survive a week being partners with Enjolras. For a split moment, Grantaire’s heart leaped. The hope that- “He thought I was a  _female_.” Enjolras sputtered, then blushed embarrassed at his slip of speech. And Grantaire’s hope was gone. All his strength was gone.

The bell rang. The class packed and left. Enjolras caught Grantaire’s eyes. The baby fell. White powder burst from the bag’s paper seams and caked onto Grantaire’s black jeans.

“For the love of God,” Enjolras swore.              

 

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this in response to the post  
> invisibleinnocence:  
> high school au where e&R get paired up for that flour sack baby project because the teacher thought Enjolras was a girl the entire year and that sends Enjolras on a sj rant about how the thought that men are incapable of raising children is a result of patriarchy in society and then Grantaire drops the flour sack  
> http://arthurisagoodnameforahorse.tumblr.com/post/62567488679  
> I only wish I'd posted it sooner! There's been an influx of 800 notes *shakes head*


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